5 times that John worried about Sherlock
by Ivory Winter
Summary: And one time the roles were reversed. Sherlock always seems to get himself into trouble. John isn't too happy about it. Eventual pairing, mostly pre-slash, now complete.
1. The week that's in it

_**5 times that John was worried about Sherlock, and one time the roles were reversed**_

_**AN: I'm sure this type of story has been done multiple times before, but as my first fanfic, I didn't want anything too long or complicated. I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but I figure I have to work up the nerve to post eventually! Enjoy and feel free to drop a review!**_

1

Even after Afghanistan, John still recoiled at the sound of a gun shot. That reaction didn't even encompass the wealth of bad memories that the sound triggered. The sharp _crack _was always louder than he expected, even if he was anticipating the shot. And on this occasion, he most certainly wasn't anticipating it. Despite not even being in the same room as the gunman, the sound still reverberated through his ears, elevating his sense of dread. '_Sherlock_!' he thought instantly.

It was safe to say that John had been enjoying his week up to this point. Work at the clinic hadn't been too strenuous. Sherlock had found an intriguing case worthy of his attention. Sherlock was content in his own way, so much so that he practically smirked at John every time he saw him. With all traces of dark humour gone, Sherlock was back to working at full capacity, tracking down the latest killer.

John wasn't at all surprised that Lestrade had asked for Sherlock's help on this case. And despite feeling rather dimwitted around Sherlock, he wasn't too suprised that Sherlock had taken the case either. Middle class men disappearing in broad daylight, later being found dead in various dark alleys, with next to no forensic evidence? That sounded like something that could keep even Sherlock occupied for a while.

However, after two days, Sherlock's interest began to diminish as he realised that this killer was in fact more idiotic and puerile than he had initially been led to believe. But John's week was still proceeding well. Sherlock hadn't resorted to taking his gun and shooting the wall just yet. That wouldn't happen until the day that the culprit was finally caught.

That day occured sooner than John had conjectured. The two men had waited at one of the former crime scenes, Sherlock correctly realising that the killer would revisit them in turn. They had leaned against the wall of the dark alley in silence for about an hour until the killer finally arrived and saw them. Sherlock and John began one of their numerous chases through London, straining their muscles to keep up with their prey.

And still John's week was progressing agreeably as he felt the adrenaline pumping. The familiar thrill of the chase overtook any sense of fear he may have otherwise felt. Through side streets and narrow roads they ran, all attempts made by the killer to shake them off proving futile. As soon as they started gaining on him, the killer turned and broke into one of the derelict buildings that lined the poorer streets of London. The duo had followed him into the building and wordlessly separated, with Sherlock taking the upper floor. There was no way the man could get away from them now.

And then John's week suddenly seemed to be the worst in his life. The sound of the gun had made John's blood turn cold and he froze momentarily. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up with sheer terror. He blindly ran out into the hall and tore up the stairs, shouting out Sherlock's name. Between his shouts he could hear noise coming from one of the rooms but he couldn't identify what exactly it was. He located it quickly and burst through the door, fearing the worst.

In front of him lay the killer with Sherlock standing over him threateningly. Handcuffs enclosed the killer's hands and a gun lay on the other side of the room. John looked at Sherlock,confusion in his eyes. Sherlock seemed to be perfectly fine, other than being slightly out of breath. John didn't understand. He was _sure _that he had heard a shot. And he knew that Sherlock didn't have a gun on his person. What had happened? He watched bewilderedly as Sherlock wrenched the man up from the floor and began to march him out the door. He smirked at John's expression.

'Honestly John, the sophistication of modern criminals has deteriorated drastically. He couldn't even shoot a stationary target standing a few feet away. Curious how he managed to kill three people before being stopped.'

John then saw the bullet buried deep in the opposite wall. He shuddered, wondering how he would have felt if the killer had made it to four.

2

In contrast to the last incident, the next time that John found himself worrying over Sherlock's wellbeing was in the middle of a particularly horrendous week. He had broken up with Sarah, realising that the relationship would never really progress. She had not taken it well. He had then rushed to A&E at the crack of dawn the next day to visit an extremely intoxicated Harry who, not only repaid him by vomiting all over his shoes, but also had the audacity to shout at him for not taking 'better care' of her. Exhausted and angry, John had neither the time nor patience to help Sherlock with his current case. At the clinic one of his colleagues was on sick leave during an unusually busy month. Without any replacement, John's working hours increased drastically along with his stress levels.

After a particularly long shift, John found himself standing like a sonambulist at the door of 221B Baker Street. After fumbling for his keys with numb fingers, he soon entered the building, closing the door softly behind him with a click. He wearily began to walk up the stairs, crossing his fingers and hoping that he could just go straight to bed. 'Sherlock, please don't be doing any experiments,' he prayed silently.

A loud thud sounded from the sitting room as John approached it. He felt his temper rising. Of course, Sherlock _had_ to be doing an experiment. It was just that kind of week where everything went up the creek. But right now John had had enough. He needed to sleep. He needed Sherlock to, for once, be considerate. Surely it couldn't be that hard for him to reciprocate. After all, John had been incredibly understanding with Sherlock, even _after_ he had found that head in the fridge. Not today though, just not today.

Another thump came from the room, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. John frowned. Even _this_ sounded unusual for a Sherlock-esque experiment. Worry began to seep through him ever so slightly. He approached the door cautiously and opened it without a sound. Inside he found Sherlock rolling around on the floor. With someone on top of him. Who was rather large. And had a knife. Which was pointed directly at Sherlock's throat...

With a roar, John threw himself on top of the attacker, knocking him off of Sherlock, all trace of tiredness forgotten. The man was taken by surprise by John's presence and loosened his grip on the knife, allowing John to disarm him. But he soon recovered and being twice John's size, he soon pushed the smaller man off. John feared that he would go after Sherlock again, but instead he saw him run through the door and down the hallway. John assumed that the man didn't fancy his odds against the two of them. He lay dazed on the floor for a few seconds, and heard the front door slam. The sound roused him, and he remembered Sherlock once more.

He turned his head and saw Sherlock lying in a similar state in the middle of the floor. John crawled over and collapsed beside him.

'That- what you did - was good,' Sherlock panted.

'No -problem,' John replied breathlessly. 'So - what the hell - happened this time?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Long story.'

John closed his eyes, tiredness overtaking him. 'Please _try _to take care of yourself Sherlock, I worry enough as it is. And this is not a good week for it. Not a good week at...'

He never finished his sentence, and drifted off to sleep right there on the floor. When he awoke in the morning on the sofa, covered in a warm blanket and the snug Union Jack pillow behind his head, he wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing. Had Sherlock done this? Without John noticing? Surely not. He blushed slightly and felt a warm sensation flow through him, though he couldn't quite figure out why.


	2. Promises, Promises

**AN: A huge thank you to my reviewers and anyone who made a story/favourite alert, you make me smile :).**

**I figured it might get annoying and bland if the stories consisted of villains coming after Sherlock all the time, so I thought I might spice it up a bit. I realise that number 4 is a bit longer than number 3, but I couldn't bring myself to cut parts out.**

**10 points to the people who know what story number 4 is based on! :P Enjoy and drop a review!**

3

'No Sherlock, no!' John fumed. 'I need you to promise me that you'll stop taking them. For good this time!'

John and Sherlock had just finished a particularly intriguing and demanding case that required them to travel to Manchester. The days immediately following these type of cases had always been a source of worry for John. With a suitable task no longer available for Sherlock, these periods were usually the worst for his tempers and black moods. This was when Sherlock's boredom was at its highest. After accustoming himself to having something to do, Sherlock had to look to extremes to satisfy himself. This time was no exception.

John knew that Sherlock had taken drugs before they met. His embarrassing encounter with DI Lestrade in the apartment that night during the Study in Pink would forever be etched in his memory. John also knew that the cravings of a former addict never truly went away. Being in the army had shown him how easily a man could destroy himself by using these substances. Which is why when he saw that Sherlock had slipped up, it gave him more of a shock than he would care to admit.

John had come home from the clinic shortly after they arrived back in London, to find Sherlock sitting in the living room with a syringe poised over his arm. John instantly saw other fresh needle marks, blemishing the detective's pale skin. It wasn't his first injection that night. He claimed that he was keeping himself occupied until the next case arose. Sherlock's apathetic attitude was almost what hurt John the most, his total ignorance of how much this was upsetting him to see. John had said nothing at the time, preferring to wait until he was positive that Sherlock was lucid. His fury carried over through the night, until he confronted the consulting detective the next morning.

Sherlock looked at him with a bored expression. 'John, I understand that your concern stems from being a doctor, but my habits as you refer to them, really will have no impact on your reputation as a doctor.'

'God damn it Sherlock, I don't care about my reputation!'

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together, confusion etched on his face.

'I am concerned because you're my friend, and I don't want to come home some day and find that you've overdosed on the couch or Christ knows what else! I don't - I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here.'

John hadn't intended to say that last sentence, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. How the hell had _that _slipped out? The carpet suddenly seemed to be extremely interesting...

A blush had also shown on Sherlock's cheeks, but he disregarded it, not really understanding why it had occurred. 'John, you know why I do it. It's what I require to keep my brain active and tuned. And I can promise you that I won't overdose, I know my limitations.'

John made eye contact again, shaking his head. 'I need a better promise than that. I get so worried about you, you really have no idea. It's one thing to come home and find that some crook has come after you and hurt you. That hurts _me_ to see. But to come home and find you hurting _yourself_... That's infinitely worse. And to know that I'm living with you and letting you do it... You said that you know your limits, but I would never forgive myself if you overestimated them. Never.'

John turned away feeling abashed, not used to being so candid around Sherlock. After a short silence, he sighed and decided that he would leave and come back later to argue it over again. It was only when his hand reached the door knob that Sherlock spoke.

'Alright,' he said softly.

John spun on his heel, and looked at him earnestly. 'What?'

'I promise. If it means that much to you.'

John treated Sherlock to his best lopsided smile. 'It does. Thank you Sherlock.'

4

It was about a month later when John decided to attend a medical conference in Belfast. It was an unusually quiet period for Sherlock, so he felt more hesitant about leaving than he otherwise would have done. What if Sherlock broke his promise? What if a big case came up? On top of that, Sherlock seemed to be (for the first time ever) feeling ill. John knew that without his presence, Sherlock wouldn't bother to take proper care of himself. But Sherlock _insisted_ that he went. And Sherlock was very commanding when he needed to be.

So John had found himself with a week to spend in Belfast. However, he had told Mrs Hudson to keep a look out for his flatmate, and made her promise to call if his condition became serious. There was a lingering worry at the back of his mind throughout the conferences, but he tried to avoid thinking about it. 'Sherlock's an adult,' he told himself. And in some ways, he was almost happy to be away from Sherlock for a while. Every time he saw him, he felt _something_ that he couldn't quite place. He had never felt it with anyone else. Not Sarah, nor Harry, no one. He needed this week to clear his head and distract himself from the criminal world that had come to define his day to day life.

He was interrupted by a phone call four days into his journey. When he realised that it was Mrs. Hudson on the other end of the line, he knew that the trip was over. Half an hour later he had run back to his hotel room and was hectically throwing everything into his suitcase. Mrs. Hudson's words kept reverberating around his head. '_I think he's dying John dear. When you left, he got so sick, he wouldn't eat or drink. He wouldn't let me get a doctor, you know what he's like. He doesn't even know that I'm calling you. But I don't care what he says. Please come back dear.'_ John had never heard her sound so close to swore and kicked his bed, earning himself a sore toe. Of course, he leaves and Sherlock becomes gravely ill! Why was he always in the wrong place at the wrong time?

John was soon on the next flight home. All the way back, he kept going over and over what Sherlock's symptoms had been, trying to think of a way to help the ailing detective. He didn't even bother collecting his luggage when the plane landed, instead running to the first cab he could find. After an agonising forty minutes, he found himself falling through the door to 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson met him on the stairs and pointed him towards the living room.

John slowed his approach, not wanting to startle Sherlock in his current condition. He opened the door to find the detective lying on the couch. He gasped in shock. Sherlock's skin was deathly pale, like paper. He seemed so fragile lying there, like his bones were threatening to break through his skin. His breathing was laboured, coming in short sharp gasps. Despite his quiet entry, Sherlock's eyes flickered open when he came into the room. A ghost of a smile passed Sherlock's lips.

'Sherlock, why didn't you call me sooner,' John replied gently, approaching the sofa.

'Stay away John,' he cried out suddenly in a raspy voice. 'Or I'll make you leave the house altogether!'

John halted his progress, hurt briefly crossing his features.

'You are angry with me,' choked out Sherlock.

John sighed. 'No, I'm not angry. Please, just let me help you.'

Sherlock shook his head fervently. 'No. I know what I'm suffering from, and it's highly contagious. It's for your own good.'

John looked at him incredulously. 'You think I care about that? Damn _my _health, I came back to help you!'

Sherlock looked at him ferociously, stopping John again as he tried to come near him.

'Not another step! If I had wanted a doctor like you to look after me, I would have called.'

John couldn't hide the real hurt that he felt when Sherlock uttered that in such a poisonous tone. John shook his head, refusing to let it get to him. 'Sherlock is sick, he doesn't mean it,' he repeated to himself.

'Do you know what EHF is?' whispered Sherlock after a short pause.

He nodded. 'Sherlock,' he said, voice breaking slightly. 'There's no treatment for EHF. Is... Is that what you have?'

His heart was hammering in his chest, chaotic thoughts pouring through John's head. 90% of those afflicted died. But how did he contract it? The only known cases were in Africa. Sherlock couldn't die! Not like this!

Sherlock's voice cut through his thoughts.

'My doctor is about to arrive. Go into the kitchen and for god's sake don't make any noise. I don't want him to know that you're here. And no matter what you hear, don't come out.'

John nodded helplessly, not knowing what to do.

'Promise me John. Promise that you'll do as I ask,' Sherlock asked him imploringly.

John nodded once more, not trusting his voice. He retreated into the dark confines of the kitchen, noticing for the first time how dark it was. Not a minute after he had left, the door bell rang and a middle-aged man entered the room.

'Well Sherlock, it certainly is pleasant to see you again. Especially in your current condition. Do you recognise me?' the man asked, as he made his way over to Sherlock's limp form.

'Charles Smith,' Sherlock rasped. 'Help me, please. Only you can.'

A shiver ran through John's spine, and it went against all his instincts to allow Sherlock to beg from this stranger.

'You hardly expected me to cure you I hope? I only came to see you suffer. Don't you know how you fell ill in the first place?' the man gloated.

'I- I can't remember. Please!'

'Did anything special come in the post? A box perhaps?'

Sherlock's breathing was growing more ragged with each passing second. 'I - yes. There - there was a spring - drew blood.'

'Very good! And I'll be taking that box back with me now. Good-bye Sherlock. I can see even now that you won't last much longer. You condemned my brother to prison. I now condemn you to death. We're even.'

John was beginning to piece together what had happened, but his promise to Sherlock held and he didn't move. Well, John most certainly hadn't promised not to kill any bastards that tried to get to Sherlock, and that was a promise he would never make.

But a sound caught John's attention before he could plan just how to murder this Charles Smith. Initially, it sounded like a hacking cough, but then John realised what it was morphing into. Laughter. His brow creased in confusion. What the -

He peeked around the corner into the sitting room and saw that Sherlock was now standing up, facing the middle-aged man, who was now at the door.

'You can come out John,' Sherlock called. 'It's quite alright. Mr Smith has merely mistaken me for a fool, that's all. And he evidently has a fondness for clichéd speech too.'

Realisation crossed Smith's features and he opened the door intending to bolt, only to be met by Lestrade outside. As the DI handcuffed him, John turned to Sherlock for answers.

'You weren't actually sick.'

'No John.'

'Then why wouldn't you let me come closer? Or at least tell me! And frankly, you look bloody terrible,' he said irritably.

Sherlock chuckled once more. 'You hardly think that I meant what I said before? As I heard you say once, you are a very good doctor. You would have seen through my acting in a moment if I had let you examine me. I hadn't anticipated on you running back to be by my deathbed so quickly however. I thought it would be safer if you didn't know of my plans.'

John shook his head incredulously. 'You still look like crap,' he reiterated, rather childishly.

'Apparently fasting and insomnia does that to a person. How about you make us some tea and I'll explain everything? I haven't had a decent cup since you left.'

'Bloody wanker,' John muttered under his breath as he went back into the kitchen.

Had he turned around to see Sherlock's reaction (yes, he _does_ have excellent hearing, thank you very much), he would have seen one of Sherlock's rare, fond smiles, that were only ever directed towards John.


	3. The Marriage of True Minds

**AN: My absolute profuse apologies for taking so long to update! I guess I became a lazy sod during the week. After writing the whole thing, I realized it was rather bad and heavily edited it today. I'm still not too fond of it and it's rather long again, but at this stage I just need to finish and maybe re-do it in ten years time... Congratulations to those who won the ten points on offer, story 4 was indeed based on 'The Dying Detective'. Please read it if you haven't already done so, and reread it if you have! Spread the Sherlock love around.**

**One is Vexed- Ten points ahoy! I never saw the Jeremy Brett version of this; I must look through my box set again! But what a man eh? He certainly gives Benedict a run for his money.**

**SBMShaneomaniac – thank you for breaking your trend to review me so! I hadn't thought of steam and wall punching, but now that you've said it, I can't help wondering why I didn't think of it before! I'll keep that in mind when I'm writing next :P**

**Mina Shelley – well thank you! I had thought of keeping the name Culverton, but as I updated the story, I thought maybe the name should change too, as I've never seen it outside of the story...**

**Thank you to all my other wonderful reviewers, you guys make my day! Enjoy and please drop a review. I'd love to make it to double digits ;)**

5

Life resumed at a fast pace for the occupants of 221B Baker Street, although a subtle change settled over a certain doctor who had his residence there. Despite the continual threat presented to them by Moriarty, the oblivious dark cloud in John's mind began to disperse. No longer could he deny or ignore inconvenient feelings. Eventually he crumbled and decided to analyze them in the manner in which Sherlock would do so. What was he feeling? And what were the implications?

Whenever he saw the initials SH at the end of a text, when he saw the detective smile at him or when he praised his efforts at a crime scene, he felt happiness flood his being. It was an entirely new sensation to the doctor, and one he was not adverse to. He savoured it.

When someone like Sally or Anderson insulted Sherlock, his pulse elevated and he had to prevent himself from giving them a harsher retort (usually involving fists) than they perhaps deserved. When Sherlock wasn't there his heart felt heavy, like it was trying to find a reason to keep beating. And when his heart plummeted every Sherlock was in trouble, the evidence really became indisputable.

John finally admitted to the implications of these symptoms, but shock wasn't the first thing that he registered. No, his first thought was to figure out how to prevent Sherlock from ever finding out. John didn't know how he would react to discovering that his flat-mate was utterly in love with him. His second thought was to curse himself, wondering how he had been stupid enough to let this happen. Not only was Sherlock a self-proclaimed sociopath, he was also devastatingly attractive, arrogant, and a completely wonderful genius. In short, everything that John was not. 'Love really had a cruel sense of humour doesn't it,' John would bitterly think after reflecting thus.

While it pained John to admit that he didn't have a chance, he comforted himself by saying that no one else really did either. He could live with being Sherlock's friend and companion. Probably. As long as no one else came in and took his place. Maybe Sherlock would work out how he felt eventually but until then, John was determined to continue on as before. Besides, now was most definitely not the time to be distracting Sherlock with romantic intentions and attachments.

Moriarty had begun to up the ante, permanently playing games with the consulting detective. John kept a close watch on his friend, trying to monitor his every movement in case he, once again, did something reckless or stupid. He worried about the impact it would have on Sherlock's mind as well as his physical wellbeing. What if Moriarty got to him? What if he messed with his brilliant mind and destroyed him? John knew it was his duty to protect Sherlock with all his might, no matter what the cost to himself. Sherlock was too great for the world to lose.

So when Sherlock left the flat one evening with a mumbled explanation of where he was going, John sensed trouble and reacted quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. He called Mycroft and Lestrade immediately, having long since acquired their numbers in case of emergencies. And it appeared that Mycroft's concern for his brother was invaluable in this case. Certain precautions of his (such as discreet tracking devices) enabled them to find out Sherlock's whereabouts almost instantaneously.

John ran from the apartment and into a cab as soon as he heard the address. He knew that there was no time to spare, though he regretted not having the foresight to bring his gun. Who knew what Moriarty would do to Sherlock? John visibly shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind.

He soon arrived and thrust money at the cabbie. Despite how much he hated Sherlock's recklessness, he realized that it must have rubbed off on him. Here he was, running into certain danger unarmed without a thought for prudence. 'Hang prudence!' thought John. 'It's no good when Sherlock's in danger.'

John saw that he was back in the language building where he had shot the cab driver in 'A Study in Pink'. So Moriarty wanted to finish things where they started. John thought desperately. Where had Sherlock talked to the serial killer? Think! He had gotten it wrong the first time around. He couldn't afford to do so again.

His memory was coming back to him, and he swiftly ran through the seeming maze of corridors. It was bigger than he remembered. He soon found the room and slowed his approach when he heard voices inside. Looking through the glass of the door, he could see that Sherlock's back was to him and he was in the middle of the room. It was dark, but he could make out Moriarty's livid features. He looked deranged almost. John slowly eased the door open, praying that the shadows would keep him hidden while he thought up a plan. Before anything came to mind, he saw Moriarty cock the gun at Sherlock. John saw the lack of hesitation in the man's cold malicious eyes. John was already running towards Sherlock before Moriarty squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out just as John knocked into Sherlock. They tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap, with John somehow ending up underneath. Another shot sounded and there was the sound of a gun dropping and Moriarty's howl of pain. Before John could really register the closeness of their bodies, Sherlock asked if he was alright and then smiled his thanks to John, before jumping back onto his feet. Lestrade and back-up officers had entered, Sherlock shouting commands to them. John could hear Sherlock calling to him as well, but for some reason he couldn't make out the words.

John breathed deeply, willing his lungs to calm down before he got up. Instead, it caused him to feel a sharp, agonizing pain in his side and he gasped audibly. He looked around for Sherlock, who had moved to the other side of the room, too caught up in arresting Moriarty to notice that John was still on the floor. In fact, no one seemed to notice John.

He felt panic begin to set in. He tried to slow his breathing, willing himself to stay calm. He moved his shaking hands down to where he felt the pain, which was rapidly intensifying. He could feel something moist through his jumper. He tried to move his head to take a look but found that he couldn't without feeling dizzy. He slowly raised his hands, and noticed that his vision had become hazy from the effort. But through the haze, he could still see the crimson liquid coating his hands...

He couldn't help letting out a muffled cry, and cursed himself for being weak. But someone evidently heard his outburst and crouched beside him with concern filled eyes.

'Sherlock,' he wheezed out. He thought he could make out Moriarty's voice somewhere. But John didn't think about that when he felt strong arms engulf him, and a soft voice whispered his name.

He tried to search for those familiar blue eyes, that familiar beautiful face. He heard his name again and felt the arms tighten around him. He looked into the eyes of the man he loved for possibly the last time, and smiled.

**'It was worth many wounds to know the depth of loyalty and love that lay behind that cold mask... I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.' - ACD**

+1

Sherlock had stared steadily down the barrel of Moriarty's gun. The criminal who was used to having others do his dirty work had decided to bring Sherlock down himself. A year ago, Sherlock would have felt angry that he was in this position. He had so many years ahead of him, work and research that would never be accomplished. And now? He was disappointed. Disappointed that it would end like this, knowing that he wouldn't say goodbye to John. That there was so much ground between them that hadn't been explored. He would always regret that.

Then suddenly he was being thrust to the floor as the gun was fired. Underneath him was John's familiar face, who was looking up at Sherlock with concern, silently asking him if he was hurt. Sherlock grinned slightly as he heard Lestrade and the other officers disarm Moriarty as he cried in frustration. 'Are you alright?' he asked softly. He could feel John's breath tickling his cheek, and noted that it a very pleasant sensation indeed.

John nodded, and Sherlock lifted himself up from the floor, instantly going to confront Moriarty. He called over his shoulder for John to follow. It was not until approximately twenty seconds later that he realized that something was wrong. He heard a muffled cry of pain, and he spun on his heel, recognizing the voice instantly. John was still on the floor and an officer was crouched beside him, unaware of what was wrong. But Sherlock saw. His trained eyes saw everything, and his breath hitched violently.

He barked to Lestrade to call an ambulance, the DI turning to look at him in confusion. Sherlock ran to John, quickly taking him into his arms, so naturally that one would have thought that he had been doing it for years.

'John,' he said anxiously, fervently. John's warm brown eyes soon sought out his own. Sherlock felt his heart thumping against his chest as he saw John's deathly pale face, that his eyes weren't as bright as they usually were. Despite this, he could still see that John was trying to smile. 'Sh-Sher-lock'.

'Shh,' the detective said gently. 'Don't talk, just stay with me.' He put his hand to John's brow, frowning when he felt that it was cold and clammy. He tightened his hold on John, trying to convince himself that he was only doing so to pass on warmth to the ex-soldier.

He heard John sigh. 's'nice,' he murmured. But his breathing was becoming more laboured with each passing second. Sherlock looked down and saw the blood that was coating his friend's torso. He weakened his grip slightly while he took out the pocket knife from his coat. He quickly cut open his jumper, searching for the bullet wound.

'M-my j-jumper,' John said weakly.

'I'll buy you another one,' Sherlock replied shortly, too concerned with trying to stop John bleeding profusely from his wound.

The ugly wail of sirens greeted his ears and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was out of his depth. He pressed down harder on the wound, cursing as he heard John groan in pain.

'Stay awake John, please, I need you here.'

And then John took a turn for a worse, screaming out in pain, and Sherlock could only look at his friend in shock. John's blood coated his clothes and hands.

'Oh -god,' John choked out. 'Sh-Sherlock. N-not y-your fault. Okay?'

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, and placed a hand either side of John's face. 'Don't you dare, John Watson! Don't you _dare _say that to me! Now, _come on_! Don't give up!' John's eyes softened and he tried to say something more, but as he drew breath, his words were lost in a cough and blood. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, while Sherlock desperately clung to his body, shouting and pleading for him to come back to him.

Sherlock had not cried since childhood. Even then, it took exceptional circumstances for it to happen. He had never really considered that he would encounter them in his adult life.

He didn't cry in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, all the while holding John's hand after he had initially been resuscitated. He didn't cry when he spent four hours straight in the waiting room, hoping to hear news on John's surgery. He still didn't cry when the doctors told him that there had been complications and John may never wake up from his medically induced coma. Nor did it happen when he spent two solid weeks keeping vigil by John's bedside, only leaving to use the adjoining bathroom. (He never let go of his hand during this time.) He didn't cry when he spoke softly to John while he was unconscious, or when he saw the sympathetic looks from his brother and his landlady, who had already given up.

Sherlock didn't cry because it was _his_ John that was in the hospital bed. And _his_ John would never leave him like this, with all the unspoken things left between them. When he felt John's fingers stir beneath his in the middle of the third week, he wasn't surprised. And he still didn't cry when it took another week for John to open his eyes for a few brief seconds. Nor when the doctors said that John may suffer from amnesia or brain damage. They would just have to wait and see.

Three days later, John opened his eyes again and spoke for the first time. Sherlock looked at him intently, and John's eyes met his. 'Sherlock,' he said with a soft smile. And Sherlock beamed and gazed back at him with a tender expression. John squeezed his hand in response, and murmured. 'I knew you'd be here,' before falling asleep again.

Through his smile, Sherlock felt the tears finally slipping down his cheeks, because John had finally come back to him. Sherlock was a rational man and all the evidence had indicated that John wouldn't survive. But for the first time in his life, the consulting detective had abandoned the facts, and had adamantly insisted that John would live. He cried because he had been right, because his faith in John had been well placed. He cried because he should have been condemned to a life without John, to a life with only loneliness and emptiness. But John had come back to him. His John. 'I knew you wouldn't leave me,' Sherlock whispered, nestling his head on John's chest, finally succumbing to sleep.

After two weeks, John had insisted that he be allowed home. Sherlock had argued with him, unwilling to let John get hurt again. But John had merely glared at him, and insisted that he would recover quicker at home anyway. In the meantime, they had talked about Moriarty, but not about the incident itself. It wasn't until they settled back into Baker Street that Sherlock approached the topic, feeling trepidation and excitement all at once.

They were sitting in the living room in their usual chairs by the fireplace. John was reading, while Sherlock gazed at him unashamedly. John finally noticed and eyed Sherlock over the top of his book. 'Is there something you want?' he asked.

'When I confronted Moriarty, you saved my life.'

John flushed slightly and was unsure of how to reply. 'Yes?'

'Why did you do it? You took a bullet for me.'

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'I hardly got shot on purpose. I did it because I care about you and you were in danger. I reacted as I always do. And I would do it again right now if I had to.'

Sherlock frowned. 'You shouldn't have done it. I don't like you getting hurt John.'

John threw down his book with a muttered curse and stood. 'What?' Sherlock questioned.

'You could say thank you for once! God damn it, you just don't get it! You can sit there and tell me that you don't want me to get hurt, but then you pay _no_ attention to yourself. Do you know how much I worry about you? I couldn't keep _living _if something happened to you Sherlock! And now you sit there and -' John struggled to find the words to express his frustration, pacing violently. Sherlock had felt his heart soar at these words. John felt the same way! He slowly got to his feet also, and walked closer to John, struggling to prevent himself from breaking out into a smile.

John turned to face him while he continued his rant. 'You always get yourself into trouble, and you don't even think about what it does to me. And then you tell me not to knock you out of a bullet's path? Well I'm sorry but that's just-'

Sherlock softly pressed his first two fingers against John's lips. That was enough to shock John into silence.

'Thank you,' he murmured in John's ear. Sherlock slowly removed his fingers and moved them to John's cheek. He closed the space between them and tentatively pressed their lips together. He allowed his long fingers to move and tangle themselves in his surprisingly soft hair.

At first John could hardly breathe let alone react, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him. But then he could feel himself pulled flush up against Sherlock's chest, and as soft lips caressed his own, all he could think was, 'oh god _yes_'. He relaxed into the touch. Sherlock took this as a good sign, and quickly deepened kiss.

Just as his hands snaked their way around Sherlock's waist, Sherlock pulled back to gage his response.

John's eyes were still closed and he was breathing deeply. Sherlock frowned slightly and was about to speak when John beat him to it.

'That was... Amazing.'

'You think so?'

John opened his eyes and grinned up at him. 'Of course. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.'

'That's not what people normally say.'

'And what do people normally say?'

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's frame, and pulled him even closer. His eyes were sparkling. 'Mind blowing was a phrase used once or twice.'

'Well good detective, why don't you run it by me again? See if you can change my mind?'

John's mischievous tone soon evaporated on hearing Sherlock's growled reply.

'I'll do a lot more than that, John Watson.'

And he did. For many years to come.


End file.
